


Like Ice

by wigglebox



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 05:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wigglebox/pseuds/wigglebox
Summary: No one wins in an argument





	Like Ice

Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash

The argument started over something silly: Which goes first on a scone -- cream or jam?

The lively debate started over brunch when Aziraphale put cream on his scone before the jam. Crowley thought back on their long-winded history, confused, trying to determine if this had always been the case. Nothing in his mind put forth a memory of Aziraphale even __eating__ a scone. 

“That’s new,” Crowley remarked, staring at the monstrosity in front of him, held delicately by his brunch-mate. 

Aziraphale frowned, “I eat scones all the time.”

“I can’t remember the last time you did.”

Shrugging, Aziraphale took a bite, and Crowley then launched both of them into a debate on scones, jam, and cream. 

On the way home, the debate then turned to prepare tea; then morphed into ‘dinner’ or ‘supper’; then morphed into --

Crowley couldn’t track the argument because it eventually dissolved into angry words flung at each other over little trivialities that had irritated them over the years. You care too little; You care too much; You are selfish; You would give away the store if a bandit asked --

The argument took them to opposite sides of the flat, Aziraphale in the room, the door shut tight, and Crowley sitting in the living room, watching people take cover as a storm rolled in. The mood was fitting. There was a sentence that Aziraphale threw at Crowley before he slammed the door in Crowley’s face, and the words tumbled over and over in Crowley’s head like a wave. 

__Imagine how much happier I’d be without you right now__. 

Crowley knew Aziraphale was just trying to get the harshest barb out of his mouth, to try and hurt Crowley to the level Aziraphale felt himself, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the blow. It did hurt. 

He’d never show he was sad to others (unless he could use the excuse he was drunk) because showing sadness was showing vulnerability and weakness. He even guarded some of those more intimate emotions to himself when around Aziraphale as well, despite their ongoing effort to be more open with each other. Crowley was alone in that corner of the flat, so he allowed himself to feel the raw surge of pain, sadness, and hurt. The ache ran from his head to his chest and outward to his toes and fingers. He couldn’t produce tears, a holdover from his old form, so at least he had that going for him, however, it didn’t lessen the magnitude of hurt he felt. 

It was no secret that out of the two of them, Aziraphale had the most trouble adjusting to life post-Heaven/Hell. He still felt that there was a higher calling for him somewhere, even if Heaven tried to douse him in holy fire. Crowley suspected that the reason Aziraphale had been slow with their progress was because of his programming. And he’s been on edge about it for a while. 

The paranoia that had been building in Crowley that he was at the root cause of Aziraphale’s stress was, up until now, just that: Paranoia. They still did things together, talked, walked, and everything else they could do together they did just fine. Aside from the slight sadness or anger (depending on the day), Crowley and Aziraphale were doing okay. 

But Now, Crowley sat on the couch looking out of the window like an emotional windbag, wondering if he could fix what he had waited centuries to get. 

__Imagine how much happier I’d be without you right now__. 

Crowley did imagine what life may be like for both of them right now if they had gone their separate ways, meeting up only every so often for a drink or a meal and then bouncing back to their own corners again. But, Crowley’s imagination only took him so far -- he seemed to mentally stop himself from imagining Aziraphale living a happy life without him. It was a selfish outlook, but anything that didn’t involve Crowley made him ache all over again. 

Sometimes, Crowley forgot that Aziraphale was, in fact, a soldier and did, in fact, hide emotions away. Maybe it wasn’t as intense as it was in the earlier years, but there was always that residual conditioning that they both couldn’t shake. Crowley longed to crack through that heavenly set of armor, but he frequently felt like he couldn’t. 

Crowley’s fight or flight response was kicking in, and he wondered if he should maybe give Aziraphale the night, or two, to sort things out. 

But if you do that, Crowley thought, he may not open that door back up to you ever again. 

Just as Crowley was getting ready to at least head down to the bakery for some air, he heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t move as he heard footsteps down the corridor, and he didn’t breathe when he saw Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye enter the room. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, small in comparison to the loud shouting match they had earlier. Crowley inhaled long and deep before looking over. 

Aziraphale stood by the doorway to the room, hands held in front of him in a nervous habit. He had dressed down a bit during his stint in their bedroom and looked more disheveled than usual. Crowley would have found the lack of layers intoxicating if it had been on any other day. 

The anger had clearly melted away. The worry on Aziraphale’s face seemed to match the amount of worry and fear in Crowley. He didn’t want to say anything yet, not sure if he had the right words. Instead, he held out his hand, keeping his face neutral so he didn’t give away how vulnerable he really, truly was at that moment. 

Without a sound, Aziraphale stepped forward and took the invitation, sliding his hand into Crowley’s and allowing Crowley to guide him to the couch by the window, sitting pressed against him, arms around each other in a sense of peace they needed since that morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is for day #5 of "Ineffable Husbands Week"! The prompt was Battle/Fight/Argue
> 
> Just some light angst, nothing too bad I hope! 
> 
> -Jen | Wigglebox


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